


What You Want

by Sonamae



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alien Culture, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Blood, Cannibalism, Cults, Gore, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 21:29:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/753276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonamae/pseuds/Sonamae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The messiahs won't tell you what to do with him, so you keep him around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Want

 You wake up and get your claws into the nearest thing that wriggles that isn’t your toy, he sleeps longer than you do.  You tear the grub or troll open with a moan, and that wakes your toy.  There’s blood gushing up through your fingers and it feels like the mirthful messiahs are smiling at you.  Running their fingers through your hair and telling you how good you are, how you’re doing your gods proud.  
  
 The little ones scream the loudest when you find them.  When you catch them and bash their skulls with your clubs or bare hands.  You feel the pressure lift and crack as their bones break and it goes right to your bulge.  It feels so good, and hearing that sick squelch makes your horns ache with the need for touch.  
  
 You paint the base of them with blood, running your fingers up the smooth edges and letting eyes drip down onto you with color as you dangle them above you and your toy.  Their bodies are your finger paint after all.  They all taste the same, smell the same, they all have the same texture.  
  
 It the texture of shit.  
  
 None of them are good enough for this new world you helped create.  They are _all_ beneath the lines of your messiahs sight, not good enough for him to look down upon.  They mean less to you than the dirt under your claws or the meat between your fangs.  
  
 You rend their flesh and hang it up in strips, decorate your corner of the world with pretty bits of their bodies and make things shine.  The blood is so beautiful when it’s fresh, and when it dries it flakes and looks so wonderful as it ages.  You get the urge to roll in it, a fresh corpse once in a while is good for you after all.  
  
 You partake in the meat and moan as it goes down, suck the eyeballs clean and squish them between your teeth.  You roll the sack over your tongue and chew it up like it’s gum.  It’s a little slice of sweetness before the bitter noise that is the blood washes down your gullet.  You might be dirtying yourself before your messiah, but they’ve never complained or reprimanded you for it.  
  
 Your world erupts in light and color and delicious slaughter.  Covered in blood and flesh, bits of hair and muscle stuck in your hair from ripping limbs off a still screaming sack of meat.  That’s what they really are after all, they have the capacity to change and except your gods, but they run and scream and hide from the truth.  
  
 The truth that is glaring in their faces.  They are going to die, be it by your hand or by your messiahs, but they will die.  They just can’t face the facts.  
  
 But then the little mutant comes along and ruins it for you.  He accepts your offer of redemption, accepts the knife and the ploy and you watch him bleed for you.  This little brat of a troll who looks so many sweeps younger than you lets you scream in his face and snarl and claw at his skin.  He takes it and says ‘I await death.’  The bitch becomes your toy faster than he can blink his oculars.  
  
 You want to rend him like the others, but you can’t.  You can’t touch this fucking bastard anymore and you don’t know why.  The messiahs don’t tell you what to do with him, they’re awful quiet when you ask, so you do nothing.  You keep him close and crowd around him, over him, you become his clothing you stay so tight to his side.  
  
 He shivers and whimpers, but he does as he’s told.  Cut here, cull that, rip this, drink it, swallow, open, close, jump, breath, stop, _kiss_ me.  
  
 You wake up wanting to do that often, kiss that small mouth with so much venom in it, bite those lips and bring up that abomination of blood that the messiahs love to look at.  You want to take him as your own and then tear out his bloodpusher as he empties his nook all over you.  
  
 That’s not something you’ll tell him though, you’ll make him say it.  He’ll come to you first, he’s not the one in control, you are.  This troll is just a toy, like they all are, and you’ll be damned twice over if you let him get to you.  
  
 He tastes like candy when you bite through his lip, and he moans for you and claws up your back.  
  
 This is what you want.  
  
 You keep telling yourself that.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I just really want to write gore. Forgive any editing mistakes, I haven't been able to sleep lately and my editor has work.


End file.
